Minister

shirt-fronts and glassy smiles of the diplomats strung out in the receiving line.
“Who are these loavers?” he demanded loudly. “Bropaply relatives, waitink arount for handouts. I have the same proplem. Or had the same proplem, I should zay. Two weeks ako was Self-Denial Festival. I made the subreme sagrifize ant offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids.”
“Giving up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea,” Retief said. “It could catch on.”
The Pope picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the food off, sniffed the plate, and took a small bite. “I’ve heard a kreat teal about Terran tishes,” he said, chewing noisily. “A bit too crizp, but not bat.” He took a second nip from the thin porcelain, offered it to Retief.
“Have a bite,” he invited genially.
“No thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your Arrogance arrived,” Retief countered. “Try the dinner plates. They’re said to be an epicure’s delight.”
There was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace doors. Ambitious diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager anticipation, delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister Straphanger, Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Hoog, waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily brocaded Hoogan longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground, and jeweled sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build and garb, distinguished only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by two yards.
“Ah, the Ampassador is twints?” the Pope inquired, moving toward the approaching pair.
“No, that’s Mrs. Straphanger,” Retief said. “If I were Your Arrogance I’d ditch that saucer; she’s fierce when aroused.”
“Ah, the edernal female, ever conzerned with food gonzervation.” The Pope tossed the crust of the plate back of a flowering bush.
“Ah, there, Ampassador Strakhumper!” he bellowed. “And your charming cow! She will